It seems the constellations have killed each other.
Leo taking Hercules’ finger, Orion wearing Scorpius’ sting.

I don’t know that we’re fit for the stars.

Could you ever be mapped?
I’m no course by which to chart.

But I would lay down jagged edges
forever to ride our shape.

Here,
where we don’t kill each other.

Here,
permanent, unfixed.

Eternal,
spinning,

a novel shine, a pattern evolving.

Us taking each other’s hands,
wearing them like two rings.

first published in Sage Cigarettes Magazine